


A (not so) Secret Mission

by schneestern



Category: Bandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-01-07
Updated: 2009-01-07
Packaged: 2018-06-02 21:42:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6583648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/schneestern/pseuds/schneestern
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pete is sad and Gabe makes it his mission to cheer him up.</p><p>This takes place during a highly fictional bandom band tour with pretty much, well, everyone ever. Just go with it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A (not so) Secret Mission

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this back in August and now I can't remember why. Probably because I wanted Pete/Gabe. That's the reason for most of my fic. Thanks to my awesome betas [](http://yan-tan-tether.livejournal.com/profile)[yan_tan_tether](http://yan-tan-tether.livejournal.com/) and [](http://rain-dances.livejournal.com/profile)[rain_dances](http://rain-dances.livejournal.com/). Thanks also to [](http://quarterturn.livejournal.com/profile)[quarterturn](http://quarterturn.livejournal.com/) for indulging me.

Gabe Saporta has a secret super sense that tells him exactly when Pete Wentz needs to get fucking smashed. At the moment it's buzzing kind of alarmingly at the back of his mind as he watches Pete trudge across the parking lot, hunched down shoulders and everything, and then disappear between buses.

Since Gabe is a pretty fucking awesome friend, he knows just the right course of action and he's not afraid to sacrifice everything he has. In this particular instance it's his dick, because that's what William is threatening to cut off if he ever catches Gabe and the two bottles of Jack he liberated from the fridge of the TAI bus. Of course, while Gabe is busy running for his life, William barely makes it off the couch where Travis was about to give him a spectacular blowjob. Gabe knows this a) because he paid Travis to do it, so there was enough distraction for what Gabe calls the Great Jack Daniels Heist of '08 in his mind and b) because well, Travis does give pretty spectacular head, paid or not.

When he's sure that William didn't have some kind of brain shortage and actually got up to chase him, Gabe slows down, panting a bit, the two Jack bottles still safely cradled in his arms. He passes Gerard and Frankie making out in what _they_ think is a dark corner, but is actually a pretty fucking obvious spot. Gabe sidles up behind Frankie's back, because these things should be shared privately and not screamed across parking lots. He politely points out a more private location to them, but apparently Frankie didn't hear him walk up or something and flinches so hard he bites into Gerard's lip.

Gabe kind of starts running again after that, because Gerard may be trying to save the world with his band, but that does not apparently include Gabe Saporta, if Gerard's yelled curses are any indication. Gabe's kind of glad he became his own savior when he founded Cobra Starship and discovered the joys of pink sweatpants and the 80s.

Finally, after what feels like half a marathon at least, Gabe reaches Pete's bus and punches in the code. He got it out of Mikey last week who in turn got it from Pete, so Gabe thinks it's totally okay, since this is an emergency of the Pete variety and anyway, everyone knows no fucking bus code will hold the Cobra back.

Gabe bursts into the bus, just in case there are people who don't know him yet and need to be impressed, but there's only Pete in nothing but his boxer briefs. He slowly blinks at Gabe, like he's trying to decide whether he wants to have human interaction or not. Gabe doesn't give him any time to decide, because a Pete Wentz who starts thinking is not a good drinking buddy. Gabe learned this the hard way.

“We're getting drunk now,” Gabe announces as he flops down on the couch, half on Pete's lap, half out and thrusts one of the Jack bottles into Pete's face. “Start drinking, buddy, because I risked my life getting this shit to you and I'm not going to argue about it.”

Of course Pete immediately starts arguing, loudly lamenting the fact that Gabe apparently thinks that alcohol is the solution to all of Pete's problems and how people never leave him the fuck alone. Gabe knows this whole act well and like a good friend uncaps the bottle and shoves it into Pete's mouth. The gurgling noise Pete makes, paired with the most ridiculous handflapping Gabe has ever seen another human being perform, makes up for the ache in Gabe's heart when he watches little drops of whiskey slide down Pete's throat, wasted. He decides to lick them off, because William and the others would be pissed if they knew their precious stolen alcohol was going to waste.

After that Pete sort of forgets about why he was fighting getting drunk in the first place and they each hold a bottle, drinking slowly.

Gabe decides then that he is the best fucking friend a rock star could possibly have. Apart from Justin Timberlake maybe, but he doesn't count.

*

A couple of hours later, or maybe a few minutes later, or maybe it's been days, okay, yeah, after some time has happened, Gabe sort of loses his clothes as well. It seems rude not to sit around in underwear too. He is trying to show solidarity here after all and if it involves nakedness, well, that's one more sacrifice Gabe has to make for the greater good of Getting Pete Wentz Drunk.

“That's why you came?” Pete slurs and sways in front of the couch, where he's been standing for some reason. Gabe realizes that he apparently said that last bit out loud. Huh.

“Huh,” he says slowly.

Pete laughs, that fucking obnoxious laugh that Gabe loves to hate. Pete wobbles a little on his feet and steadies himself by putting a foot up on Gabe's knee, standing on the other foot without falling over.

It is then that it occurs to Gabe that Pete is not in fact standing, but lying on the floor and that Gabe himself is the one standing on his feet, unsteadily balancing his body, Pete's foot pushing against his knee like--

“You're trying to trip me,” Gabe says accusingly and tries to glower at Pete. That only makes Pete laugh harder and in a sneaky move that would get him fucking disqualified in the Ninja Olympics he hooks one bony ankle around Gabe's foot and pulls it forward.

Gabe falls to the floor in what he thinks is probably a very graceful way, given that he does not break any of his bones or spill any of the precious Jack.

“Motherfucker,” he says after the bus has mostly stopped spinning around him, and hits Pete in the thigh. Only he misses by about a mile and somehow ends up petting Pete's dick. Pete makes a muffled noise in response and squirms.

Gabe says, “Oh, sorry,” and keeps his hand exactly where it is.

It's not like this is new or anything. Gabe and Pete have sex approximately every other week when they're bored. Sometimes they bet on who comes first, sometimes they jerk off together, because doing it alone is sort of pathetic they agree, and sometimes Gabe gives Pete a blowjob, just because he can. Not many people get to have casual sex with their boss and still keep their job. Gabe acknowledges and appreciates this. Very much.

“You're still touching my dick,” Pete says matter of factly and grins a drunk sideways grin that Gabe wants to kiss away.

He doesn't, because they've never kissed.

It's some unspoken rule maybe, a silent pinky swear of no kissing. Since it involves the guy who loudly claims he's only gay above the waist, Gabe finds it pretty fucking hilarious and doesn't question it. Mostly.

“Yes, I am,” Gabe says and the appropriate time for an answer has long since passed, so it sounds like he's having a conversation with himself. Gabe hates feeling stupid so he takes another gulp from his bottle only to find that it's empty. Pete laughs again and presses a can of beer he apparently grabbed out of thin air against Gabe's hand in his lap.

Gabe takes it.

*

Gabe is drunk. Quite a lot actually. He knows this because he's lying down and the room still floats around him like a big, bus-shaped ocean. He also knows it because there are two empty bottles and a good couple of beer cans next to his head, neatly lined up in a row. They multiply every time Gabe blinks and then snap back into their original number. It's disconcerting to say the least.

“You're so drunk, Saporta,” Pete says and Gabe realizes that not only is he lying on the floor drunk out of his mind, no, Pete Wentz is sitting in his lap like he owns the place. Seeing as how he owns the bus Gabe is currently lying on the floor of, that makes a lot of sense.

“You had like almost two of those bottles and half the beer, wow,” Pete says and smiles widely at Gabe. It kind of makes Gabe want to hit Pete, but Patrick would probably not appreciate it very much if his bassist had to go on stage with a big bruise in his face and besides it would defeat Gabe's bigger plan of making Pete happy by getting him drunk.

Still, Gabe wonders when getting _Pete_ drunk out of his mind turned into _Gabe_ being drunk out of his mind. “About two hours ago,” Pete supplies dutifully and Gabe should really stop this talking out loud bullshit. It's very unnerving.

For a brief moment he closes his eyes and lets the alcohol haze wash over him. It's warm and easy and really nice, and, okay, maybe that last one has something to do with the way Pete is moving in his lap, slow little rubs that send sparks through Gabe's body, but that's just petty details. Gabe's always been more of a big picture kind of guy.

“So, the way I see it,” Pete says thoughtfully and does a little hip shimmy, that does _not_ coax a weird needy sound out of Gabe, thank you very much, “The way I see it, the final part in your big, slightly crazy plan to make me happy would obviously be sex.”

“Obviously,” Gabe parrots and blinks his eyes open to see if he really did say that out loud.

Apparently he did, because Pete is grinning very seriously, one hand shoved down in his boxers, doing, well, something, Gabe can't quite get his eyes to focus. In his other hand though, Pete is clutching a sharpie. Gabe's pretty sure that this will either lead to embarrassing declarations scribbled on parts of Gabe's skin that will be a bitch to hide or the sharpie going places it is really not supposed to go. Not that that's new either.

“I think, we will go with _my_ plan for this evening, which will be as follows,” Pete coughs, probably for dramatic emphasis but ends up doubled over Gabe's belly, coughing violently, warm breath ghosting over Gabe's skin. It's pretty gross, considering Pete might cough up his lung any second now from the sounds of it, but the only way Gabe seems to be able to react to it is by getting goosebumps, fanning out over his body.

After a dramatic slump onto Gabe, most likely Pete faking his death, Pete sits back up, accidentally grinding their cocks together and rendering both of them breathless for a moment.

“Jesus,” Pete says and Gabe has to agree.

“Whatever your plan was, Pete, I think we should have sex instead.”

Gabe thinks this is not unreasonable, but apparently he missed something in the grand scheme of things because Pete looks at him and then doubles over again, this time from laughing. He manages to knock over the Jack bottles in the process and Gabe barely has enough time to move out of the way, before one can poke his eye out. Seriously, he has not been jerking off since the age of twelve just to finally lose his eyesight to the guy he semi-regularly fucks. That's not even karmic payback anymore.

Gabe's mostly lost his whole train of thought by the time Pete calms back down, wheezing “Dude, dude,” between breaths. Gabe is about to punch him in his stupid donkey face, Patrick be damned, when Pete grabs for his hand. After the third attempt he manages to curl his palm around it. Pete's hand is sticky with what Gabe supposes is probably Pete's own pre-come or something and he really should be grossed out, but he's had that stuff in places he doesn't really care to talk about, so it's okay.

Pete unceremoniously scoots down Gabe's body and Gabe barely has time to think about the fact that yes, finally they're getting somewhere. Then Pete shoves Gabe's hand into Gabe's boxers and oh. _Oh_.

“Oh,” Gabe says.

Pete giggles. “I dry humped you and your sharp hipbones for about an hour, dude, and no offense, but usually you get it up like five seconds after I touch your dick.” Gabe huffs, because that is so not true, he takes a lot longer than-- “Okay, ten seconds then,” Pete waves his hand, “My point is this: You, Gabe Saporta, have had too much alcohol to fuck anyone or anything tonight. Therefore my plan is as follows: You will let me draw on you to make up for the no sex tonight. Then I will take you to my bunk and tomorrow you will wake me up with the most spectacular blowjob known to man and possibly breakfast.”

It turns out that Gabe is able to punch Pete in the face after all, if he really, really concentrates on it.

The ensuing fight is, well, more a pushing and pulling than an actual fight, neither of them letting go, so as not to miss when they hit the other.

They end up exactly like before, except that now the sharpie is digging into Gabe's kidney and Pete is pinning his wrists down, face hovering so close in front of Gabe's that Gabe has to cross his eyes in what he thinks is possibly a very, very unattractive frown.

“I hate you,” he gets out and Pete affectionately bites his jaw.

“Not as much as I hate you guys right now, trust me,” Patrick suddenly says from the door of the bus and Pete looks up and grins, the grin that he thinks is boyish and cute but actually makes him look like a serial rapist. Gabe's been trying to figure out a way to tell him this for months now.

“Don't you ever have sex in private, Pete?”, Patrick sounds exasperated, like this argument is old and worn at the edges. Gabe is too busy trying to crane his neck to see his face to wonder how many times Patrick has walked in on a situation, hell, Gabe and Pete, like this.

“Nah, that's boring,” Pete says and actually has the nerve to yawn, baring all his teeth in the process, which should be impossible. Gabe twitches and Pete grabs his wrists harder, thumbs rubbing slowly over his pulse points.

“It works perfectly fine for the 'normal' people,” Patrick answers and Gabe finally manages to twist around enough just in time to see Patrick make the air quotes around the word normal. It looks pretty fucking hilarious upside down and Gabe laughs.

“We're not having sex,” he supplies helpfully as Pete lets go of his hands and says, “Give us ten minutes, Trick.”

Patrick rolls his eyes and nods at Pete. Gabe tries to wave goodbye to Patrick but ends up patting Pete's hair instead. He's really not very coordinated when he's drunk.

“Sorry, Patrick Stump,” he says slowly so that every word comes out right, the way it's supposed to. Patrick frowns at him and then turns right around and leaves.

“I think he hates me,” Gabe says sadly and Pete laughs at him and then he's leaning in again, kissing Gabe full on the lips.

It tastes like alcohol and Gabe traces Pete's smile with his tongue, sloppy and wet. He thinks he should kiss Pete Wentz more often.

“You're gonna regret this so much tomorrow,” Pete mumbles against his lips and Gabe can taste the laughter with his mouth.

“Never regret anything,” he gets out before he loses consciousness.

*

Gabe wakes up to the mother of all headaches, regretting every last drop of alcohol he had last night. He's confused, disoriented, he has that weird hangover taste on his tongue and there's a hot mouth wrapped around his dick. That last part is maybe not as unpleasant as the others.

“Thought you'd never wake up,” Pete hums around his dick and Gabe says “Mrmpf,” and grabs a fist full of Pete's hair to hold onto.

No matter what anyone says, Pete Wentz is actually pretty awesome at blowjobs, hand slowly smoothing over the base, mouth sucking hard around the tip of Gabe's cock. It's fucking awesome and wet and tight and Gabe can not possibly be expected to last long that way and he comes so hard he's pretty sure he'll feel even worse when he finally gets back up out of the cramped bunk.

He makes a half hearted attempt to grab Pete's dick, fair trade off and all that, Gabe is not an asshole after all, but Pete laughs right in his ear and bats his hand away. He wriggles against Gabe's side and then rubs his slick, hot dick against Gabe's hip until he comes warm and wet between them, small content sounds vibrating against Gabe's side.

“Ew, dude,” Gabe says, but Pete ignores him and bites his neck. “Cope, Saporta,” he says and throws an arm and a leg over Gabe's body, doing that weird melty thing he does, that feels like he's fitting himself to the shape of Gabe's body.

Even though he feels really horrible, mouth cotton scratchy, drying come on his hip and Pete warm and sweaty against his side, Gabe starts drifting off again, body intent on reclaiming its lost sleep, violently, if necessary. So, really, he can't be blamed if Pete has to ask Gabe's shoulder a second time, “Why did you really come over last night?”

“You looked sad,” Gabe says and is pleased when he realizes that his words do in fact form a whole sentence and make sense on top of that. Usually he only manages one of those when he's sober, let alone when he's barely awake with the biggest hangover any human being has ever had.

“Oh,” Pete says and thoughtfully licks at a spot right below Gabe's ear.

*

Gabe finally does make it off the bus, wrapped up in one of Pete's ridiculous bartskull covered hoodies, because he couldn't find his shirt anymore and it's fucking freezing outside. He passes Andy on his way outside, who is about to say something into his phone but breaks out into roaring laughter instead when he sees Gabe.

Gabe quickly checks if his fly is open (it's not) and stumbles out of the bus, feeling supremely confused.

*

Three hours later it's Bob Bryar of all people who takes pity on him and holds a mirror in front of his face.

Gabe stares at the words “Thnks fr th mmrs” on his forehead and then “Pete” on one cheek and “Wentz” on the other.

“I'm gonna kill that little son of a bitch,” Gabe tells Bob and then kisses him full on the mouth, because his Mom brought Gabe up right and he knows when people need to be rewarded for their good deeds.

Gabe ends up with a bruise under his left eye from where Bob punches him and black smudges across his face because the sharpie doesn't quite surrender to soap and water, no matter how hard he scrubs.

He also makes Pete Wentz beg for mercy or forgiveness, Gabe forgets which it was, and then fucks him against a dirty bathroom wall later that evening.

All in all, Gabe's pretty sure that his Mission To Cheer Up Pete Wentz was pretty damn successful, especially considering that Travis still hasn't noticed that Gabe gave him Monopoly money he stole from a little girl two venues back. 


End file.
